


Put out the fire

by Toinette93



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1972, 1982, Drunken Shenanigans, Fire, Fire Alarms, Gen, Post-concert weirdness, Tone change, comedy & angst, friendship feels, one really brief mention of the possibility of suicide, will contain hugs and BAMF!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toinette93/pseuds/Toinette93
Summary: This fic tells two stories of (completely fictional) fires, in two different tonesChapter 1: 1972, Bedford college. This chapter is dedicated to the drunken idiot who got his microwave to explode in my dorms one Saturday morning at 3 a.m.Chapter 2: 1982, Frankfurt. Luxurious hotels burn as anything else does, and tour exhaustion makes for heavy sleepers.
Relationships: John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi people,
> 
> Hope you enjoy this little thing.
> 
> I thank if_this_be_madness for the idea. 
> 
> The story between there being two chapters is that I could not decide between two versions of the story, so I just wrote both. 
> 
> The concert with under 10 people showing up in Bedford is real, the rest is pure fiction.   
> For more info about the concert see : http://queenlive.ca/ this website is a treasure trove.
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought in the comments
> 
> Take care !
> 
> Toinette out

Bedford college, January 29th 1972

It was one in the morning, after the worst concert in their entire – if arguably short – career. A grand total of eight people had showed up, and after having driven the whole way from London to Bedford to play that gig their new bassist, John, had found them, it had been quite a disappointment. At least they had not had to pay for housing, the student’s union that had asked them to play here and had then done such a sloppy job at advertising their show had at least gotten them a room to stay in the student dorms for the night.

The building was brand new, and although it hardly made up for the failed concert, at least they had a comfortable place to stay. For now, no one was was actually sleeping in any of the room’s four beds. The desk, however, wasn’t unoccupied. On it was a pile of papers, covered in mathematical operations and spidery red scrawls. On top of the pile of papers, there was a sleeping head, a mop of curls falling in all directions around it.

There was a shrieking noise coming from somewhere outside the room, and Brian May opened his eyes, and raised his head from the desk. Shit, he thought, he had fallen asleep grading again. What was that noise? He looked around, bleary-eyed, remembering were he was. His bandmates were not back yet. They had gone to the pub after that disaster of a concert to drown their sorrows, or do as much of it as their meagre finances allowed. He hadn’t joined them, needing to give back those damn paper on time, and also being particularly broke at the moment, his pay from the school late again. Still, 1 a.m. was late for the little money they had, they did not have enough for more than a few beers and Brian was starting to worry.

His brain slowly waking up finally identified the shrieking sound. Fire alarm. The realisation jostled him completely awake. He could not see any flames or smoke but… Checking once again that his bandmates weren’t there, Brian walked out of the room, intent on leaving the building. There was no one in the corridor. The dorms were empty, this building not being officially open to students yet.

As he was walking towards the staircase, the guitarist suddenly noticed smoke, coming out of the kitchen door. He was about to go the other way, to get to the stairs on the other side of the building, when he heard a laughter he would have recognized anywhere coming from that door. That was Freddie in there. Brian felt quite puzzled at hearing Freddie laughing in such a situation. Then he heard Roger’s voice “Come on Deacs, turn that damn thing off!” Then there was a thump, and a crash.

Brian had no idea what was going on, if there was actually a fire or not, but he did not like the sound of that crash, and he ran towards the kitchen door. He rushed inside, not quite sure what to expect.

The kitchen as a matter of fact, was not on fire, even if there was a lot of smoke. But the scene that met Brian’s eyes still left him frozen in place in the doorway. On the kitchen floor, right under the fire alarm, a giggling Freddie, John, and a broken chair were sprawled in a pile of human and wooden limbs. Coming out of the pile was John’s right hand, his arm still holding a broom, that had obviously been used to try and shut down the alarm.

On the other side of the room, near the sink, head barely emerging from a cloud of white smoke, was Roger, red-eyed, looking rather uncoordinated, and holding a wet pan that, from the smell, had probably contained bacon at some point, although the charred remain on it hardly looked edible. The smoke was coming from the pan. Roger had apparently tried to cook. Next to him, miraculously intact but also very much empty was one bottle of very cheap vodka.

Brian’s arrival was met with a renewed fit of giggles from Freddie on the floor, who was trying, quite unsuccessfully do de-entangle himself from John. The bassist seemed to be quite happy where he was, curled up on himself and wasn’t helping in any way. Roger wore a deer-caught-in-the-headlight expression on his face and he dropped the pan that seemed to have mostly exhausted its smoke-producing properties in the sink. Clonk, did the pan.

Dealing with the most pressing issue first, Brian crossed the kitchen and opened the windows, getting the last of the smoke out, although it was still smelling of burnt bacon. They would need to leave the window open, even if a glacial wind was coming into the kitchen from there. Brian got a look around. Apart from the broken chair and the ruined pan, there did not seem to be any major damage in the kitchen. And the alarm had finally stopped blaring.

He turned back to his bandmates, trying to push down his irritation at the scene before his eyes. He left them alone for a couple hours, and they almost ruined a whole kitchen. They were supposed to be grown men, not teenagers, even if John was arguably barely out of his teenage years. But Freddie and Roger should have known better.

Brian walked towards Freddie and dragged him up from the floor, none too gently. The singer kept on trying to hug him, and he had to pry his arms from him.

“Come on Fred, get up, it’s cold in there, we need to get you back to your room.”

Brian had half a mind to just leave them there, but he did not want to have to deal with sick and whiny bandmates on the drive home on top of everything else.

“Brian, dear!” said Freddie, “I’m so happy to see you! We missed you you know?” and then he burrowed his head into his friend’s bony shoulder, sloppily kissing it. Brian always found it rather hard to stay mad at Freddie for long, and that was exactly why.

“Alright, Fred, I had some grading to do, and it’s a good thing someone stayed sober for once. Come on, stay there, I’ll help John up.”

Freddie stayed standing right where he was, and started softly mumbling pieces of a tune. He did not seem to remember more than the first few notes, and sang them repeatedly, over and over again.

Brian put the broom away and sat down next to John, who was still on the floor, and did not seem particularly intent to move.

“Come on Deacy, let’s get you up. It’s getting cold in there.”

“I don’t want to, the world is turning and I think I’m going to be sick.”

Brian looked at his bandmate, curled-up on the floor and sighed. John sounded like the child he had been not that long ago.

“You can’t stay here John, I’ll get you to the bathroom, then, come on.” The bassist did not move and looked at Brian with big sad eyes. Brian turned to Roger who had not moved one inch but still seemed to be the most put-together of the three – arguably a low bar, and asked:

“Can you help me get him up?”

Roger nodded, and came over, with a slightly wobbly pace. With his help, Brian managed to get Joh up and half dragging half carrying him, they went back to their room, followed by a still giggly Freddie.

Once they were in the room, Freddie just plopped down on his bed, and instantly fell asleep. Brian and Roger managed to get John to the bathroom, where an impressive quantity of alcohol went out of the young man and into the toilet. Brian was holding him up, while Roger moved away, looking somewhat green himself and sat down in the back of the room, holding his knees.

When John was done, he fell back on his friend, exhausted, and softly talking to him, Brian managed to get him to drink a glass of water and go to bed. John was asleep in seconds.

Brian had to persuade Roger to get of the floor, he seemed kind of scared, but once he managed, the drummer sat down on his own bed, and apparently fell asleep that way. Brian sighed, grabbed his legs, and got him to actually lay down. With an eyeroll, he got a blanket on top of each of his bandmates. They were all snoring quietly, and although they would definitely have a hungover the next day, they did not seem hurt in any other way.

Brian looked at the time – 1:24 am – then at the pile of papers he needed to grade. He only had a few left. He sighed and went back to it. And so, in the morning, he woke up again with his head on the desk. But all the papers had been graded. The others fought their hungover and tidied up the kitchen. Roger drove most of the way, and in the evening, they were back in London, not discouraged after the worst gig of their band’s existence.


	2. Chapter 2

Frankfurt, April 28th 1982

That night, after the concert, tempers were running high, and the exhaustion of the tour was showing. Not even the adrenaline caused by the show could keep any of the four men going. The show had been quite good, all in all but the audience didn’t seem to particularly like their new album, which had prompted Freddie to tell the audience "If you don't wanna hear it, fuckin' go home!" Not the best way to introduce a song. Of course, it did not help that half the band actually agreed with them.

Once they had started playing the damn things, the audience had liked it well enough, and even Roger had to admit those songs did work live, with more drumming and guitar added in the mix, and their professionalism kicking in, getting the very best out of their instruments. Despite everything their chemistry on stage was still undeniable, still perfect as ever, and the pent up anger and energy only ever seemed to make the shows better.

As soon as they were off stage, though, the arguments about everything and anything came back full force, and that time, as it often was the case lately, it was John and Brian who had started getting at each other’s throat about tweaks that should or should not be made to the setlist The exhaustion did not help, especially for Brian who had not slept properly in what felt like weeks. Roger, for once, had tried to defuse the argument but had gotten dragged into it, and even Freddie, their usual diplomat, had been unable to stop it from happening. It had paused during the car ride, each in their own limousine, but had started again as soon as they got out of the car and out of the public eye. It had only stopped when they had gotten to the hotel top floor where each of their suites were located, and they had each gotten inside their own room, slamming the door.

***

A few hours later all of them were asleep, each alone in their suites. One floor down, a little boy was having a nightmare. One of his flaying arms pushed the lamp, that had stayed on, crashing down on the floor.

Unnoticed by anyone, the rug caught on fire. The shrieking of the fire alarm woke up the child and his parents, and they got out of there, but the fire was now raging in the room.

***

The fire alarm blared through the whole hotel. The fire was progressing fast, cutting through the rich ornaments of the palace. In the biggest of the top-floor suites, Freddie woke with a start. He could hear the alarm, and noises of people running around. He got up, quickly put on a t-shirt, sweatpants, running shoes, grabbed his keys and was out the door with his unlaced shoes in under a minute, grumbling and hoping it was a fake alarm.

The moment he was out the door, it was clear it wasn’t. The corridor felt warm, and the light from the overhead window, had an orange tinge that did not bode well. There was not any smoke in the corridor yet, but it would only be a matter of time. Freddie felt his heartbeat grow faster. He tried to remember where the fire-escape was. He knew the lift was out of the question, and they were on the tenth and last floor. As he turned around, he saw Roger, sunglasses on but with his shirt put the wrong way around, and John, hair seeming redder with the light of the flames, getting out of their respective suites.

They congregated in the corridor. John looked tense, and Freddie was quite sure he did as well. Roger had the advantage of his sunglasses to hide his facial expression, but his voice betrayed his concern when he asked:

“Freddie, John, you’re alright?”

“Yes.” answered John, voice tight.

“Yes, are you?” asked Freddie, putting his hand on Roger’s forearm.

The drummer nodded and looked around. John said out loud where everyone was thinking

“Where’s Brian? Did he go out tonight?”

“No, I...”

“No, I don’t think so...” said the two others at the same time.

“Shit, he’s still in there.” said Roger, voice going up in the higher range, panicking.

“Alright, calm down” said John, who barely sounded calmer himself. “Freddie, you have a double of his room-key in your room, right?”

“Yes” said the singer, and he ran off to get it. He had never blessed more than this time this habit of their early years to have key doubles, in case one of them forgot theirs, or shouldn’t be left alone for whatever reason. They hadn’t used them in years, yet, it had become a habit, one they had never quite stopped having, despite not having gone to each other’s rooms quite a long time.

While Freddie was running off, Roger and John went to Brian’s door. Roger tried to open it, just in case, but of course, it was closed. Roger pounded on the door, and both he and John yelled but there was no response. Of course, it could be that Brian had left for the evening, and not told any of them, it was the most likely possibility even, but none of them was ready to take the chance.

Freddie was back, and passed the key to John, who opened the door. He was met by a lot of smoke, and closed the door right back. In the few seconds, he had seen Brian’s form silhouetted on his bed, unmoving, flames licking the open window.

John turned around, and grabbed the fire-extinguisher that was just next to Brian’s door. He then looked at his two bandmates. They nodded.

“You put out the fire, we get him out.” Said Roger to John. And they opened the door again. There was a lot of smoke, but as of yet, very few flames, and crouching down, the three rockers were next to their friend in a very short time. John attacked the few flames that had caught the curtain.

They were used to working together enough, that even in that situation, they coordinated effortlessly.

“Brian, dear, wake up, there’s a fire, you need to get out of here”. Freddie’s voice was tight with worry, why hadn’t Brian woken up?

On the other side, there was a bottle of sleeping pills, and a glass of water, and for one terrible second, Roger feared the worst remembering the pictures from Jimi Hendrix’s death. A wave of panic washed over him. Then he got a better look. There was maybe one pill missing from the bottle. New drug, probably badly dosed, but most likely not dangerous. Still, Freddie did not seem to be getting much of a reaction from Brian, who was opening his eyes, far too slowly.

“Guys...” said John, still fighting the flames, that were getting closer and closer. The extinguisher was only going to buy them a little bit more time at that point.

Roger took the glass of water and threw it a the guitarist. That got a reaction and Brian shot up, spluttering. Freddie got some water on his face too. Roger pocketed the bottle of pills just in case, and they got Brian to get up. Helping each other, crouching low to get some breathable air, they managed to get out of the room. The floor was creaking, and it was getting hot.

They got out, not a moment too soon. Despite John’s effort, just as they were closing the door, the bed took on fire. They stopped in the doorway, coughing. John’s right arm was held protectively against his chest. Roger spotted some painful looking burns on his friend’s wrist. It would have to wait. They’d have to get out as fast as possible. They ran in the direction of the staircase, Brian was running with them, although he still seemed to be rather unsure of what was actually going on.

They never got to the staircase. There was smoke building up in the corridor, and looking at each other the musicians soon figured out there was no way that with that much smoke that far up, the 10 storeys of stairs would be clear enough to let them through.

“My suite.” said Freddie.

It was the one that was the further away from Brian’s and it seemed like the best possible idea. When they opened the door to the room, they saw with relief that there was no smoke inside. They got inside and closed the door behind them.

“I’ll go call the fire-department, tell them we’re stuck up here.” said Freddie.

“Do you speak German, Fred?” asked Roger, knowing the answer.

“Not, really no. Well, I know Schweinehund, or Arschgeige but it won’t exactly help with the fire brigade...”

“Why what does it mean?” asked John

“Pig-dog or something….And Arse-violin”

“Yeah, that’s colourful but not really helpful, Fred, let’s hope they speak English. Otherwise, I think Fire is Feuer, 10th Floor is Zehnte Etage, and four is Vier. I can’t really help you more than that.” said Roger.

Freddie ran off to find the firefighter emergency number in the hotel leaflet and to call them.

“Put something on the balcony to signal our presence too, Fred!” added the drummer.

“We need to barricade the door with wet towels.” said John.

“Right, then we’ll get a look at your arm.” said Roger. “Bring me the towels Brian and I will put them on the door.”

The Brian and I part of the statement was arguably optimistic, since the guitarist was dozing off again, sat down directly on the floor, coughing occasionally, as they all did. John did not point it out and just went to fetch the towels. Roger filled the cracks and the bottom of the door, and wet the whole doorframe and the walls and floor while he was at it. By putting a wet towel directly on top of Brian’s head, he managed to get the guitarist awake enough that he used his height to push wet towels to the uppermost parts of the door. The whole process also had the effect of getting John’s burned wrist constantly under water, and when Roger finally had time to get a look at it, it did not look all that bad.

When they got to the main part of the suite, Freddie had just finished talking with the firemen.

“They know we’re here, but there is only one firemen ladder high enough in Frankfurt. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“Well done Fred’” said Roger.

Freddie and Roger sat next to each other on the couch. All they could do now was wait. On the couch in front of them were John and Brian, the bassist still holding his arm, as even if it did not appear to be severe, the burn still hurt like hell. The sirens were shrieking in the distance, but the fire alarm inside the hotel itself had stopped, thankfully.

Once the flurry of activity was past, the situation hit them fully. The light from the fire on the floors under them was colouring the light orange. John started to shake uncontrollably. Brian, who seemed to be more and more awake by the minute, and was slowly piecing up in his head what had just happened, took the bass-player in his arms, something they really had not been doing much lately.

The youngest of them was crying. He was scared. A lot could happen in twenty minutes. The other two looked at each other and joined in the hug. The couch was facing the window, and they looked at the skyline, at the Festhalle were they had played just a few hours ago, a reality that seemed a universe away now.

“You got me out.” said Brian. “You saved me. You probably could have been safe by now but you came back for me.”

“Of course we did, you idiot.” said Roger. “And don’t bloody take those sleeping pills again, they make you far too hard to wake up, you wanker.”

“I won’t, I’m sorry” said Brian. His friends may die because he had not been careful and taken a pill that was probably far too strong for him, especially having drunk some alcohol as well just after the show. Freddie passed a hand through his curls, and John curled in tighter.

After twenty minutes, the firefighter were there, and they got them out, carrying them all the way down on the firemen ladder. Down there they were met by their crew who were frantic. They had been further down, and had been able to go out before things were really bad. Everyone had gotten out without any serious injury. Without quite understanding how that happened, John ended up with an armful of his roadies. That part of the event was never mentioned again. And at the next concert the fans were even more enthusiastic than ever.

The arguments did not stop. They were still the bitchiest band on the planet, the galaxy even, as Roger sometimes added, sticking his tongue at Brian. But the thought that they might actually hate each other barely crossed their minds again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey people !
> 
> This is the end of this short little thing. I hope you liked it. 
> 
> The information about the concert, including Freddie using somewhat colourful language towards his audience is accurate and comes from the previously quoted queenlive.ca website. And Jimi Hendrix did die of a sleeping pill overdose, according to hiswikipedia page.
> 
> The rest is obviously complete fiction, thankfully ! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought, thank you for reading this. 
> 
> Have a wonderful day and take care
> 
> Toinette out


End file.
